Outlaw Hell (2 page)

Duane had heard conflicting testimony concerning his outlaw father. Some claimed Joe Braddock was an innocent small rancher who went up against the big boys. Others said he was a cold-blooded killer, rustler, and horse thief. The only man Duane met who'd actually known his father had kept mum about the details, because he didn't want Duane to ride the vengeance trail. “Best you don't know,” he'd said, before dying of a gunshot wound.

His name was Clyde Butterfield, and he'd taught Duane the classic fast draw. Duane had been blessed or cursed with unusually fast reflexes, and had occasion to use his newly acquired skills several times since meeting Butterfield. Then, thanks to a whisky-soaked newspaper reporter with an overactive imagination, Duane Braddock became known as the Pecos Kid. The ex-acolyte was struggling to assimilate the dramatic changes in his life since he'd left the monastery, and often wondered who he was beneath his black wide-brimmed cowboy hat.

He gazed longingly at the town calling across the desert, but then, suddenly, was on his feet, reaching for his Colt .44. He spun around, yanked iron, thumbed back the hammer, and aimed at his spare shirt hanging from a peg in the cracked stone wall. He didn't pull the trigger, because he didn't want to attract Apaches, the posse, the Fourth
Cavalry, or anyone else looking to claim the reward on his head, but the Apaches had taught him to stay alert, with his muscles primed for action at all times.

The town on the edge of night was called Escondido, and its most prominent institution was the Last Chance Saloon. As Duane fretted in his isolated cave, customers played cards, drank, and made nefarious plans in the main room, while a man in a striped shirt played the piano off-key.

Painted women in short dresses brought the customers whisky, the blue-plate special, and romance at fifty cents a throw, the latter a specialty of the house. It was the basic border town whoop and holler, frequented by Mexican banditos, American outlaws, unemployed cowboys, vaqueros, gamblers, drunkards, whores, and heavily armed swaggering fools.

Forty-two-year-old Maggie O'Day owned the Last Chance Saloon, and her office was at the rear of the rambling structure. It was furnished with a crude wooden desk, some chairs, a few books, and a double-barreled shotgun on the wall, opposite a painted portrait of General Robert E. Lee.

Maggie was a heavyset raw-boned woman who looked like she could lay a man out with one punch. But she wore a frilly dress, a fancy becurled hairdo, a gold necklace, and an emerald brooch, as she peered through gold-rimmed spectacles at the bottorn line.

The Last Chance was raking in cabbage every night, thanks to her shrewd management. She had considerable experience in her specialized field, which she'd first learned at her mother's knee—dear old momma had been a soiled dove herself. Maggie joined the profession at the age of twelve, learned the ropes quickly, saved her money, invested wisely, married when it suited her, and now had the supreme luxury of sleeping alone every night and not worrying where her next crust of bread was coming from.

She'd never met her father, and for all she knew, he could be the poor wretch she'd seen languishing in the alley earlier that night, filthy and ragged, sucking a bottle of cheap mescal. But she had more to worry about than her unknown father. The saloon was amassing more money than she could handle easily, and she didn't trust banks, sheriffs, and certainly not the townspeople of Escondido, most of whom were outlaws.

Her wealth resided in an iron safe bolted to the wall, the window barred like a jail cell, and the door double-thick, with three of the best locks money could buy. If anybody wanted her earnings, he'd have to bring dynamite, and hopefully her bodyguards would catch them in the act. One of these days, the lid'll blow off this town, she conjectured. I hope I'm out of here by then. Her ultimate dream was move to San Francisco, buy a legitimate hotel, and be a real lady instead of queen of Escondido's whores.

A shot sounded on the street, and her hand moved involuntarily toward the Smith & Wesson
lying on her desk. She always kept it handy, because anything could happen in Escondido. Then someone knocked.

Burly Bradley Metzger, her chief bodyguard, entered her office, wearing a black frock coat with a frilly white shirt and black string tie. “A gal to see you. Wants a job, I think. Should I tell her to come back tomorrow?”

“What's she look like?”

“Got a scar on her face, but not too bad. She's young.”

“Send her in.”

Maggie returned dreary ledgers to their drawer, as a petite woman with lustrous black hair, pale skin, and tattered clothing entered the office. Looks thirty, but probably seventeen, Maggie evaluated. “Have a seat. What's yer name?”

The girl had doe eyes and a thin horizontal scar on her right cheek. “Alice Markham. I was a-wonderin' if you needed a waitress.”

“Ever been a waitress before?”

“'Bout two years now. I'm a real hard worker, and I l'arn fast. I even knows how to read and write a bit.”

Maggie selected a panatella from a mahogany humidor, lit it with a match, and blew smoke out the side of her mouth. “I can always use a hard-workin' gal, but I don't tolerate horseshit. I expect you to be on time and lookin' good every night yer scheduled to work. If you fight with the customers ; or the other gals, I'll throw yer ass onto the street so i fast you won't know what hit you. Get my drift?”

“You won't have no trouble from me, Miss O'Day. I'm here to make money and that's all.”

“Then we'll git along fine.” Maggie puffed her panatella thoughtfully, for she'd been young and on the loose once too. “Let me give you a little friendly advice, ‘cause you look like you might need some ‘bout now. I'm probably wastin' my time, ‘cause nobody ever listens to old Maggie O'Day, but you save yer money, stay away from drink, and don't give everythin' away to no smooth-talkin' cowboy— you can build up a nice little nest egg here. You got any good clothes?”

The girl averted her eyes. “They're pretty worn out, I'm afraid.”

“I'll advance you some, and take it out'n yer pay. My cut is half of ev'rythin' you earn, but I provide room and board, and keep a clean place. Are you with me so far?”

The girl replied: “You won't have any trouble with me, Miss O'Day. I don't drink, don't smoke, don't gamble, and I ain't a-givin' my money to no smooth-talkin' cowboy.”

“'At's what they all say. Well, you can do as you damn well please, long as it don't interfere with my bizness. But let me tell you somethin' missy—fer yer own good. You look out fer my interests, I'll look out fer yers, and we'll git along right fine. But you ever cross me,”—Maggie raised the Smith & Wesson and aimed it at Alice Markham's head— “I'll put one right between yer eyes.”

F
ATHER
D
IEGO
G
ONZALEZ WAS HAVING
problems with his breakfast campfire. “If only I had some paper,” he muttered in mounting frustration. Back at Santa Veronica Iglesia in Durango, the nuns cooked his food and laundered his clothing, but now he was a lone traveler on the Coahuilan desert, and had to care for himself.

He'd been transferred to the new church in San Antonio, but the Franciscans weren't rich enough to provide an armed escort. It was a long arduous journey, but he felt confident that no one, not even a Protestant, would interfere with a priest doing the Lord's work.

Father Gonzalez's sweat-soaked brown robe billowed around his ample girth, and a straw sombrero was perched atop his head. He'd get weak if he didn't eat something soon, but the wood wasn't cooperating.

“Don't move,” said a voice behind him.

Father Gonzalez spun around, and his eyes widened at a young cowboy in black clothes, with a red bandanna around his neck and a silver concho hatband on his black cowboy hat.

“Keep your hands in the air,” the cowboy said.

“But I'm a Catholic priest!” protested Father Diego.

“We'll see about that.”

The cowboy patted Father Diego down, searching for a weapon. “You don't look like you missed too many meals.” He searched Father Diego's saddle-bags, while aiming his gun at the rotund priest. Inside the saddlebags were a rosary, breviary, Bible, and vestments. The young man smiled sheepishly, as he holstered his gun. “Guess you really are a priest. Can I help you with that fire?”

Father Diego lowered his hands, as the strange cowboy disappeared into mesquite and juniper as, silently as he'd arrived. The priest wondered how he'd gotten so close without his hearing him.

The cowboy returned after a brief interval with handfuls of foliage and wood. He arranged the material in the firepit that the priest had dug, and set it afire. Flames flickered and expanded immediately.

“There you go,” the cowboy said.

“I'm very grateful,” the priest said with a little bow. “I am Father Diego. May I know your name?”

“Just call me Joe. Sorry if I scared you, but there's more killers and crooks out here than you can shake a stick at. Want me to help you with that bread?”

Before the humble priest could reply, Duane was reaching for the wooden bowl. He emptied flour into it and mixed it with water. “Do you have any sourdough?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Too bad, ‘cause sourdough gives it that special taste.” Duane kneaded and rolled biscuits, then placed them in the Dutch oven. He'd observed cooks during his brief stints as a cowboy after leaving the monastery in the clouds. “Shouldn't take long. Which way're you headed, Father?”

“San Antone. Are you a Catholic?”

“Yes sir, and I was raised in a Benedictine orphanage. I wonder if you'd hear my confession after the biscuits are done.”

“We shouldn't wait to confess,” replied the padre, “because we never know when our Lord will return. I'll watch them to make sure they don't burn.” He raised his hand and made the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

The young man appeared embarrassed, and the padre sought to reassure him. “There's nothing you can tell me, my boy, that I haven't heard a hundred times before. Go ahead, make a full confession, and I will absolve you in the name of Jesus.”

Duane clasped his hands and bowed his head. “My last confession was approximately six months ago. Since then I'm afraid I've ... ah ... shot a few people.”

The desert fell silent, as Father Diego stared at him. “Excuse me, but did you say you'd shot
a few
people?”

“Self-defense every time, Father. They pushed me into it.”

“Self-defense
every
time? It is difficult to believe, no?”

“I don't know what it is about me that bothers folks, Father, but they're always trying to take advantage, and am I suppose to let them?”

The priest thought for a few moments, then nodded sagely, for he'd heard many strange confessions during his ecclesiastical career. “Do you have anything else to add?”

“Well,” replied Duane, lowering his voice, “I've ... ah ... fornicated with a few women.”

“I suppose they attacked you, and tore off your clothing?”

“I know what you're thinking, Father. That I start everything in the first place. But I swear I don't. It just sort of happens.”

“Holy Mother Church teaches that all events are caused. Where did the killings take place?”

“Texas,” Duane replied.

“I meant what kinds of places?”

Duane frowned guiltily. “Saloons most of the time.”

The priest waved his arms dramatically. “Aha, you see? What do you expect in saloons, a Holy Hour? Stay out of saloons, and sin no more. I'm sure that's where you meet the women too, no?” “Yes,” replied Duane.

“Do you have anything else to confess?”

“Well,” Duane began, “I might've stolen a few horses here and there.”

“You're not sure?”

“It was dark.”

“Not as dark as your heart, I'm afraid. Young man, you simply cannot go on like this. Thou shalt not kill.”

“What about when somebody shoots at me?”

“It is your duty to avoid sinful situations. Use your mind instead of your weapons of violence. You must view every man, no matter how low, as a brother, and every woman as the Mother of God, not a creature put on earth to satisfy your deezgusting lustful appetites. I will ask you to say one Rosary every day for
the rest of your life.
Do you have a rosary?”

“I used to have one, but I lost it.”

“I'm sure that's not all you have lost.” The priest rummaged in his saddlebag, and pulled out a black-beaded rosary. “It was made by Mexican nuns, and you should carry it with you always, to remind yourself of Christ's great love for you. The biscuits are almost finished, so let me absolve you.”

The priest intoned ancient prayers and made the sign of the cross. “You are a very bad man,” moaned
Father Diego, shaking his head disapprovingly. Then he examined the biscuits and peered inside the pot of coffee. “I hope you'll stay and have breakfast with me.”